Today is the first day of National Poetry Month, the first day of NaPoWriMo, and I am not writing a poem. Why? Because I am writing a novel and I cannot do both at the same time. And also, I spent all last year and the beginning of this year writing a book of poems and I need a breather from opening up my body and describing how the heart beats in meticulous detail. Because that is what it feels like for me to write a poem these days. I no longer want to write pretty things about pretty situations. Instead, I find myself exploring the darkest corners of the human psyche and that is both disturbing and exhilarating. And one cannot do it for long without shying away from both the pain and joy of it. So, not writing a poem a day this month. I will miss it, but I console myself with the latest dialogue from my novel:

“Gabriel and I talked it over when you were in the bathroom. All that’s left is for you to decide if you want this too.”

I do want it, I want to write poems with everyone, all my poet friends, but I have decided. This year instead I must watch from the sidelines.